


Three Dots And A Dash

by rocknerd



Category: Hunter X Hunter
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Music, I DONT KNOW HOW COLLEGE WORKS im too young, Teen Angst, dark turns and twistz, how do i write a description, i have a lot of time on my hands but also a lot of commitment issues, lord and saviour tonpa will make an appearance, the most overused au setting of all time but u no what i gotta live my life, will slowly turn into a psychological thriller type thing hopefully if it ever gets off the ground
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-25
Updated: 2018-07-31
Packaged: 2019-06-16 01:53:15
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,974
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15426471
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rocknerd/pseuds/rocknerd
Summary: three dots and a dash [ . . . __ ]morse code for the letter "v", symbolising victory.The York New Conservatory has a problem: its senior batch has gone rogue. When their primary lecturer Knov resigns from his post for reasons shrouded in mystery, Professor Biscuit Krueger is asked to step in as a substitute. It soon becomes apparent that this is no run-of-the-mill group of arrogant youngsters. How long will Biscuit last in a classroom of the world's finest musicians, none of whom agree to play to her tempo?





	1. The Substitute

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> PIECE 1: Schubert- Piano Trio No.2 in E flat D. 292 Op. 100

One week into the fall semester, Biscuit Krueger, decorated professor of Music Education and Performance, winner of the local equivalent of a Peace Prize for her outreach programme in high schools across the state, receives a phone call. Hair wet from the shower, bathrobe wrapped neatly around her dainty frame, she holds the dated landline in hand, curling a finger through the cord. 

On the other end of the line, Cheadle Yorkshire, administrative head of the York New Conservatory, speaks in a careful monotone. 

“Yes, we would be honoured if you were to temporarily assist us while we interview other candidates— yes, I understand your position— yes, it would be for an indefinite period, but remuneration will be in full given your stature— no of course not, my apologies Dr. Krueger, I can assure you the class is gifted and eager.”

Biscuit drops onto the velvet cushion of her sofa, leaning an elbow on the side-table. 

“And Knov? He’s busy, is he?” 

“Yes, that’s right, Dr. Krueger. He has resigned on account of personal matters...”

That was one way to put it. Knov, the last time Bisky met him, was as stellar a conductor as he was a professor— sharp, confident, and very much determined to squeeze results out of those around him, no matter how limited their potential. Despite how young he was at the time (a true greenhorn by Bisky’s standards) the man had shown a maturity and talent that had led her to believe he would go far.

From the recent rumours, however, she thinks it’s just as well he decided to quit. It’s always the five year mark that tests the spirit of a York New professor. Every batch of musicians that trickles through the tightly-lidded gates is either prodigious or exceptionally hard-working; the conservatory accepts no less. But prodigy doesn’t often meld with affability, and Bisky knows full well that the cream of the crop can be downright vitriolic to their teachers if they so choose, without much consequence at that. 

After all, there are only so many top-tier flautists and violinists to pick from. The conservatory tries its best to bring in well-rounded students, but the main focus has always been on excellence, and after attending nearly every annual concert they host, Bisky can’t say the approach is necessarily _wrong_.

Anyway, being both alumni of the school and a professor in her early days before her humanitarian work, Biscuit has plenty of little birdies letting her in on the juicy gossip. One of the biggest issues the school is currently facing, as Cheadle so deliberately glosses over, is one she hasn’t heard in a while: 

The senior batch has gone rogue. 

It doesn’t happen often, but Biscuit has faint memory of a similar instance a long, long time ago. In fact, she remembers quite clearly that Ms. Yorkshire herself was in that batch, the year an immensely gifted but equally outrageous student had transferred from a private school on Dean Netero’s insistence. 

Hoo boy, had that been a ride. 

The kid, lanky and just as swanky with his blinding smile and iridescent French horn, had immediately locked antlers (or horns, hehe) with the rest of his classmates, most notably with Cheadle, whose clean track record was all but destroyed once she tried to thwack the kid in the head with her clarinet. And of course, the other one he fought with was Ging— the legendary bum with a knack for the guitar who showed up when and how he pleased, got into a few fist fights, and passed his exams with flying colours before dropping out in the middle of his Masters. 

Yes, that had been _quite_ something, Biscuit recalls, and though she never taught any of them, she had seen plenty of teachers storm out in tears saying they were impossible, incurable, hopeless. 

Bisky always thought she could do a good job with them, but at the time she just didn’t have the experience required to qualify; she’s sure she had the skill. 

So something similar is happening yet again, and cool, calm, collected Knov was having difficulty reigning in the wild horses. How interesting. 

Biscuit feels an ancient lurch in her stomach, the excitement of moulding raucous youngsters into shining stars of pure brilliance thrumming quietly in her skull. She doesn’t really like the idea of being a _substitute,_ but regardless of title, this is an opportunity she cannot pass up. 

“Ms. Krueger? Hello? Are you still on the line? I cannot hang up until I have received a clear reply from you, these are Dean Netero’s instructions, and you know how he is-”

“Cheadle, dear, no need to be so formal with me. We’ve known each other since you were nineteen and I was… well, anyway, I accept the position.”

“Excellent, thank you so much Dr. Krueger. I’ll convey your response to the Dean. He’ll probably ask you to start as soon as possible, since this year is crucial for the seniors, as you know.”

“Hmm. Cheadle, may I ask you a personal question?”

“Me?” A pause. “I’m afraid it would be unprofessional, Ms. Krueger.”

“Oh nonsense, it’s just a quick little thing. Surely you have time for an old friend?”

 _“Friend?”_ Bisky can hear Cheadle mutter under her breath in blurted confusion, before clearing her throat. 

“Of course.”

Bisky smiles. “Cheadle, have you heard from Pariston Hill lately?”

—-

It’s 6am and the hallways of the university creak with the slow weight of tired young adults, most of whom drag their feet behind them as they go about their morning routines. From the practice rooms, and even from the dorms, the clash of instruments being tuned and the flurry of warm up scales echoes around the campus, reaching a crescendo as the sunlight begins to warm the dull buildings and colour the autumn trees. 

A shrill horn resounds, the morning bell of sorts, although it’s really just some over-enthusiastic freshmen who applied for the job to get extra credit. The response is a collective groan from the student body, eyes heavy and ears covered at the shriek of the horn. As it stops, voices grow louder, doors slam hastily and the life of the conservatory starts anew, some people running through the crowds to the cafeteria while others hang about in groups, discussing this and that and “no that can’t be a natural, it’s in F# minor.” 

Through it all, snoring loudly under his comfortable duvet, lies first year student Gon. 

“Gon, we have class in an hour”, his roommate Killua grumbles, already dressed, half a sandwich in his mouth. No response. He kicks the foot of the bed harshly, sending Gon’s skull straight into the wooden headboard. A yelp. 

“Get up, we’re late”, he says, dropping his skateboard under his own bed and slinging a bag over his shoulder. 

Gon whines, sliding off the mattress and rubbing his eyes. 

“Aren’t you a morning person?”, Killua asks, scanning his friend’s side of the room. A pair of well-worn drumsticks are balanced precariously on a stack of books, papers strewn out everywhere. 

“I had homework.”

Killua picks up a half-finished transcription from the clutter. “This was assigned to us like a week ago, Gon!”

The green-haired boy shrugs. “It was really hard, so I just left it for later.”

Killua sighs. “You know you could have _asked me,_ right?”

The other shrugs again. “I like doing things on my own.”

Killua rolls his eyes before stepping out. “Well, get an alarm or something. I’m not waking you up again.” 

Then, leaning back on the door handle, “Hurry up before Professor Wing kicks your ass.”

——————

Killua hates theory. Hates it with a passion. Hates it with every bone in his body. Would rather drown in a sea of snakes than have to do another test on key centres and transposition and all the other _shit_ Mr. Wing talks about like it’s godsend. 

It only makes it worse that he’s actually _good_ at it. Growing up in the Zoldyck house meant you were trained for one thing and one thing only, and that was to be a musician. Not just any musician, mind you— a classically-trained, bona-fide musician of the highest caliber. And that was the bare minimum. 

Apart from being proficient at the piano, everyone in his family played some string instrument or the other, and as one of five children born to two world-renowned violinists, it was only logical that Killua be naturally gifted. 

He still shudders at the rigorous training his mother put him and his siblings through, determined that they should prove to the world just how unmatched the Zoldycks were. By the time he was three, Killua was already performing for audiences hand-picked by his parents, putting on recitals and going through his childhood to the rhythms of Bach and Vivaldi. 

He hands in his test thirty minutes before the end of class. 

Mr. Wing nods in acknowledgement, and Killua leaves, grinning playfully at a distraught Gon who is banging his head against his desk. Really, Killua doesn’t mind sharing answers with anyone, because he knows he’s right, but Gon refuses to cheat like the shining apostle of moral conduct that he is, so there’s nothing he can do. 

He wanders over to a vending machine, buying himself a well-earned can of Coke, humming a little tune, when he feels someone towering over him. 

“You know those aren’t healthy for you”, comes a familiar airy voice, so earnestly disapproving that Killua wants to smack his brother right in the middle of his face. 

“Don’t you have class, Illumi?”, he scowls, throwing his head back and taking a long chug of the drink. 

“My professor has resigned. We don’t have a substitute yet, although I’ve heard she’ll be here soon. I thought I’d welcome her.” 

Illumi sips from a can of his own, and Killua feels his blood boil at the hypocrisy. 

Illumi is always telling him not to do things, and then proceeding to do them himself without a hint of self-awareness. First it was taking up sport (“you might injure your hands”), then it was trying out a bit of rock music one summer break (“you might injure your brain”). Killua wonders what his brother will determine is unfit for him next. 

Maybe he’ll say he can’t have friends or some shit like that. Yeah, it sounds like something he could justify. He was the high school debate champion after all. 

“Trying to scare her away too?”, he remarks, moving from the vending machine towards a bench by a large maple tree. Illumi glides after him, eyes blank as usual. He tilts his head to the side. 

“No, she’ll be fine. For a _substitute,_ anyway. Her name is Krueger, I’ve been told.”

Killua frowns at the disdain in his words, opening his mouth to speak, when another figure steps up behind the two of them, shoes clipping against the granite path a few metres away. 

“Well, I’m glad you approve my being here.”

They turn around to face a petite woman in a sharp suit, a little shorter than Killua despite her heels. Her blonde hair is pinned up in a bun and her hand clutches a folder, bright pink and thick with bundles of paper. Illumi steps forward briskly. 

“Ms. Krueger, is it? You must be covering for Mr. Knov.”

The lady smiles, a glint in her eyes as she scans the two of them. 

“Why yes, that’s me: _Doctor_ Krueger. Any reason you two are out of class?”

Killua rubs the back of his head, grateful when Illumi answers on his behalf. Usually, he hates the way his brother talks about him to strangers, all the unnecessary praise he heaps on to remind them that Killua is indeed far superior to them and their children. But in this instance, he supposes it’s easier for him to just let the two of them talk and leave him be. 

“My brother, Killua, just happened to finish his test early. It’s his first year and it’s all a bit too easy for him, isn’t it?”

He nods. He’s used to Illumi calculating his every move to the point of being ridiculously overbearing, so it doesn’t surprise him that his brother knows why he’s out of class. That’s just how he is. 

The professor gives Killua a warm smile before looking back at Illumi cautiously. She doesn’t seem to like his brother very much, but then again, not a lot of people like Illumi. At least, not outside of the seniors. 

From what Killua’s heard, his sibling makes quite the impression on the ladies, which is frankly absurd considering how lackluster Illumi is in almost every aspect of his life. But his friend Kurapika swears on his family that he saw him making out with a sophomore once, so who knows. Maybe it’s the hair. 

It certainly isn’t the personality. 

“And you?” the professor asks of his brother, looking up at him.

“I just thought I’d welcome you, seeing as you’ll be lecturing us from now on.” 

There’s the trademark politeness. Killua detests how false it sounds to his ears. Illumi never goes out of his way for anything, except maybe his family, and even _that_ is circumstantial. Greeting teachers out of the good of his heart? No, he’s probably gauging her personality to see just how much he can get away with. Killua hopes the lady knows what she’s doing: Illumi may look earnest enough, but he’s as manipulative as they come. Rest assured, this meeting was no altruistic whim. 

Krueger begins to walk down the hallway, waving to Killua as she and his brother make for their classroom. Killua waves back awkwardly, craning his neck to try and follow their conversation. 

“Well, that’s nice of you, uh-”

“Illumi Zoldyck.”

“ _Illumi,_ that’s kind of you. But I hope you know I am only a temporary replacement. Once Knov is well again, he’ll be back.”

Illumi stops suddenly. Killua hears him laugh. 

“I highly doubt that, Ms. Krueger. After what happened to him, I must say I’m actually quite worried about you.”

————————

Biscuit doesn’t think she’s met such a punchable face in years. This boy, Illumi, (the Zoldyck name hasn’t escaped her notice either) is completely unreadable, completely generous, and yet absolutely sinister. She doesn’t know what exactly happened to Knov over the past few weeks, but she is certain that this boy has something to do with it. 

As they turn the corner into the open door of the classroom, he snakes past her, long dark hair trailing loftily behind him as he makes his way to the back of the room. Twelve students face her, some of them smiling graciously, others sour-faced and hungover, and the rest chatting amongst themselves without much notice. 

Illumi’s eyes tunnel into her soul, and she looks away, setting her folder onto the table. 

“Good morning. Apologies, but I was held up in the admin department sorting some things out.”

A rustle as the chatter dies down. Another boy leans in to whisper something to Illumi, who nods in answer. The room quietens. 

_Well,_ Bisky thinks as twelve pairs of eyes stare her down in the small room, _at least they’re not a rowdy bunch._

“So, as you probably know, I’m Dr. Biscuit Krueger, and-”

A hand raises surely into the air. _And so it begins._

“Why don’t you hold that thought. I’ll get back to you once I’m done”, she says pointedly, continuing her sentence. A few soft smirks pass around the room as the hand goes the down. The young man to whom it belongs shrinks meekly, casting his friends embarrassed sneers. 

As she’s talking, her voice basically on autopilot after a lifetime of introducing herself at seminars and the like, she observes the students. She’d been warned of two in particular, but despite Cheadle’s pleading, she’d refused to look at their names. It’s important, she thinks, to keep an open mind in these sorts of situations. Anyway, she’s already met one of the two troublemakers in Illumi, or at least, that’s what her intuition says. But, you know, “open mind” and all that. She decides she should scope out the rest of them.

“So, before we jump into our reading of Scriabin, I’d like any three of you to introduce yourselves.” 

She likes getting to know her students, don’t get her wrong, but Bisky does have the bad habit of getting a little too involved in their matters, which surely won’t do with a bunch of know-it-all seniors who probably won’t appreciate her life advice. 

And besides, it’s been a while since she’s had to memorize most anything, so it’s only appropriate that she pace herself. 

The hand from before raises again. 

“Why don’t you start us off, then?”

The boy tugs at the red sleeves of his shirt, confident smile on his face. “I’m Hanzo”, he says. 

A second passes. 

With a start, Biscuit realises he’s done. Her astonishment follows soon after. 

_That’s it?_

_That’s it???_

_That’s all you have to say for yourself?_

A flame surges within her, all plans of staying “professionally detached” flying out the proverbial window. Surely a music student knows the importance of a good introduction? 

She turns to the rest of them, shocked as anything, and is met with indifference. Where is the passion in these students? They look dead and mopey and lifeless beyond belief. 

_These are the gems of the York New Conservatory? Unacceptable!_

“That’s not an introduction, Hanzo!”

“Huh?” 

She paces the front of the room, waving her hands about. “What do you play? Why are you here? _What do you love about music?_ ”

With every new question, she can feel the students backing away, bodies stiff with discomfort. Some snigger at her wild gesticulation. 

Hanzo’s eyes are wide. “Uhh”

“Don’t “uhh” me! Give me something meaningful! What is it about you that makes you Hanzo?”

The boy looks positively terrified. “I’m… I specialise in oboe. Uh, I’m from Jappon?” 

Bisky nods encouragingly, hands on her waist as she stares him down. “I… come from a family of musicians, so, uh, music is my destiny, I guess?”

Biscuit pats him on the back vigorously. “Good job! Seems like you have something to you.” 

He grins weakly. 

This just won’t do, Bisky thinks, as the others in the class look on amusedly. It’s taken far too much effort to get more than a word out of the most eager student in the class. At the back, Illumi isn’t even paying attention, instead scribbling something in his notebook casually, chin resting on his arm. 

“Illumi”, she says firmly, and the boy looks up slowly, boredly, as if it is testing his patience to humour her. Bisky is undeterred. She likes a challenge. 

“Did you know Hanzo is from Jappon?” 

He blinks, looking around the room. “Who is Hanzo?”

Hanzo guffaws. A couple of the others chuckle, as if they’re used to this behaviour, but Bisky is unamused. 

She frowns. “You tell me.” 

Illumi gazes around vaguely, letting everyone stew in awkward silence before pointing at a boy in a tracksuit. “Is it you?”

The boy growls. “I’m Phinks, asshole.”

“Oh” Then, “Are you in _percussion?_ ” The word drips with condescension. 

Phinks clenches his fists. “Brass.”

Illumi shrugs. 

“I’m afraid I don’t recognise a Hanzo in this room.”

Biscuit holds back an irritated sigh. Despite his earlier enthusiasm, Illumi is proving to be very difficult. 

“Why don’t you try again?”, she insists, leaning back against her table. The dark-haired boy remains stoic, his fingers twirling his pencil lightly. 

Nimble fingers, Bisky notes instinctively. Long and well-maintained. But soft. She’d bet money he’s a pianist, but then again, he is a Zoldyck. They’re pretty much known for their chamber players. The boy must spend a decent amount on caring for his fingers if that’s the case, because there is no indication whatsoever from the gentle pads of his skin that he has ever toiled away on metal strings. 

Before Bisky realises what’s happening, lost in speculation, the pencil flies across the room, sinking into the wall above a snoring young man in a suit and spectacles. He jumps awake, head bumping against the length of the pencil. 

“Showoff”, Phinks mutters. 

“Are you Hanzo?”, Illumi asks, ignoring the stares he receives. 

“What?”, comes the seriously hungover reply.

Biscuit gets what the boy is trying to do, and it’s rather clever. He’s diverting her attention in three ways, bringing up:

1) his sleeping classmate

2) Phinks’ attitude, and 

3) the threat of his own apparent physical strength. 

An interesting strategy to fluster even an experienced teacher, but she isn’t falling for it. Illumi side-eyes her curiously, but receives only an expectant stare from the professor. 

 

“Did you just call me Hanzo?”

“Are you not?”

“Quit playing dumb, Illumi. You know I’m right here”, Hanzo voices, annoyed. He doesn’t look back, but lifts a finger to point to himself. 

Illumi blinks again. “Oh, it’s you.” He turns to the other. “So then who are you?”

 

The room sighs. The boy in the suit grits his teeth, taking a deep breath. “I’m Leorio”, he bellows. “This is the fourth time you’ve asked!”

From across the room Phinks snarks, “Aren’t you the one that hangs out with freshman? Creep.”

When she hears the steam whistle go off in Leorio’s brain, Biscuit decides to intervene. 

 

“Leorio! Sit down. Phinks, I don’t want to hear another word.” 

It’s like dealing with middle schoolers, she thinks, getting more ticked off by the second. What’s worse is that despite being in the same group, none of them seems the least bit concerned or interested in the others. 

“You’ve all studied in the same school for three years, and you barely know each other?”

It’s ridiculous. Back in the problem year of Pariston and Ging, at least the rest of the group had been tightly knit. This year, the outliers seem to be the norm. 

A pink haired girl speaks up. “To be fair, all of us specialise in different things. This is the only class we take together.”

A short boy next to her lifts his head from his desk. Under dark bangs, he drawls, “Everything else we do is either individual or with our co-curricular groups.”

So _that’s_ the issue. Bisky had heard of the revamped curriculum when it was first brought up three years ago, with its the focus on individual training to produce more competitive soloists, but she didn’t expect the effects of the policy to be quite so disastrous. She will have to do something about it, and quickly. 

It’s a good thing she came prepared.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for reading! <3
> 
> things i thought while writing this: 
> 
> 1\. Poor Cheadle ends up in the admin department despite being a promising clarinet player in her youth.  
> Rat - 1, Dog - 0
> 
> 2\. I always imagine Illumi would be a great archer or a fencer but the silly side of me wants to see him try to play something like football. lol the worst team player apart from hyskoa probably ("accidentally" causing a self-goal just so he can get the other team to do him favours... or just do him tbh)
> 
> 3\. gon plays the drums bc why not? so obviously illumi hates percussion players idk why you ask him 
> 
> 4\. Hanzo is a cutie but also i bet he'd be the annoying first row kid (actually maybe not, he seems kinda chill but this is an au so shhhh)
> 
> 5\. guess what instrument milluki plays (no seriously guess i have no clue tbh maybe he'd do synths lol that would piss off silva so much)
> 
> 6\. watch bisky fail every last one of these losers on the next episode of Krueger vs The Edgelords


	2. High-Noon Conversations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's mid-afternoon. General chatter and conversation. When Killua's brothers get involved, things start going haywire.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> PIECE 2: Brahms - Cello Sonata No.1 in E Minor, Op.38

“Your brother is a dick.”

Killua snorts. They’re sitting in a far corner of the sprawling greenery, under the shade of a large oak. Kurapika has his face buried in his scores, headphones on as he flips through it. His leg taps the ground to the tempo. 

Leorio plonks himself beside Killua, drying off his sweaty face with a towel after a game of football. 

“Tell me about it”, the white-haired boy mutters, watching the field. The seniors always snag the grounds before anyone can even think about it, but this time a couple of sophomores are playing along with them. 

“Why are they letting Pokkle onto the team?”, Killua wonders aloud. 

Leorio tears through his sandwich noisily. “They’re down a few today. Nobody knows where Meruem is. And Uvogin’s pretty sick, or so I heard.”

Kurapika shuffles in his seat. A moment of discomfort knits his lips before he returns to his piece. 

“Hey, Kura, whatcha listening to?”, Killua asks, narrowing his eyes. He has a pretty excellent sense of meter, and (courtesy of his brother) an internal metronome that could make a real one blush. So when Kurapika’s allegro suddenly turns into an allegretto molto moderato in the span of three seconds, Killua knows something’s off. 

The blond boy looks up, pulling his headphones off nonchalantly. 

“Pardon?”

Killua sidles over to look at the score. It’s Bach because of course it’s fucking Bach and no worse than the Brandenburg Concerto. Killua almost pukes at the thought of the three minute harpsichord solo he had to learn as a toddler, memories of the tinny instrument and never ending figured bass patterns hammering against his brain. No, it’s definitely allegro, and Kurapika, the perfectionist he is, would not be missing beats so wildly as he had been just now if there wasn’t a major distraction. 

“Did you hear Uvogin was sick?”, Leorio supplies handily, and Killua notes the sudden stiffness in Kurapika’s posture. 

“Yes, I heard from Basho this morning. He’s pretty sick too. There’s always a flu this time of year.” And with that, he goes back to his reading. 

Killua frowns. There’s something he’s hiding, and knowing Kurapika’s sordid history, he can only hope it isn’t too serious. Nevertheless, it’s not his nature to pry (that would be more Gon’s forté) so he goes back to conversing with Leorio. 

“Anyway, what did Illumi do this time?”

“Guess.”

“He forgot your name again?” 

“Yeah, and he threw a pencil at me.”

“What the fuck?”

“I know! You’d think he’d remember by now.”

“No, I meant the pencil…”, Killua says absent-mindedly. Then, “Wait, was this during your lesson with the new lady?”

Before Leorio can answer, a football lands by them, a few inches out of their reach. From afar Pokkle motions at them to kick it back. Killua sighs, moving towards it, when green boots swish past him suddenly and the ball soars high, landing at Pokkle’s feet. 

“Thanks, Gon!”, the sophomore yells. 

“Don’t mention it!”, Gon yells back with a smile. He turns to his friends and sits down beside Killua. 

“Yo, Kura”, he says. Kurapika nods in response, nose diving further into his score. Gon furrows his eyebrows, but Killua ropes him into their conversation. 

“Where were you?”

“I had detention.” 

Leorio laughs. “Gon, again? Even I wasn’t that bad in my freshman year. What did you do?”

The boy reaches for an apple. “I didn’t mean to, but theory is soo boring and Mr. Wing-”

“Did you fall asleep?”

“...Yes.”

Killua shakes his head in mock-seriousness. “This is very disappointing, Gon”, he says, mimicking Wing’s soft tone. 

The two of them laugh. Leorio continues to stuff his face with bread, simultaneously texting someone with great enthusiasm. 

As their giggles subdue, Gon asks,“So, what were you guys talking about?”

Killua snaps a finger. “Oh yeah, so was it Krueger?”

Leorio stops for a second, trying to place the name. “The short one?” Killua nods.

“It was her. I don’t know what happened, but I woke up and Illumi asked me if I was Hanzo.”

Gon barks with laughter. “Hanzo? You two look nothing alike.” 

“I know! And then Phinks decided to grill me about hanging out with you guys-”

“Asshole”, Killua and Kurapika mumble in unison. 

“- and then she told me off. Not him, _me!_ ”

Leorio’s phone pings with a message. He squints at his screen before replying aggressively, face contorting in varying degrees of horror and rage. He looks panicked, but Gon takes no notice, still mulling over the fact that his friend was humiliated. 

The green-haired boy tutts. “That’s unfair”, Then, realising he has missed some of the dialogue, “But why are we talking about her?”

Killua gazes silently at Leorio, who is all but seething, nose nearly touching his screen. 

“Because Killua’s brothers are dicks”, he says grimly, tossing his towel to the ground and standing up. 

Emphasis on “brothers”. Plural. As in someone other than soulless Illumi has been messing with Leorio. Which is to say, more precisely, that Milluki has been messing with Leorio. And apparently, it’s bad enough that the tall senior is going to deal with it face to face. 

He is walking towards where Milluki, Nicolas, some other third years are giggling, huddled together outside one of the many cafés on campus. 

Killua has never felt more guilty. He isn’t sure what just went down but he knows Milluki’s capable of some pretty bad things. Especially with all the dirt he has on basically the entire school. 

He cringes as his friend stands over his brother, yelling into his face. Milluki lifts a fat finger towards him, and Killua can see the veins throbbing in Leorio’s neck. He scrambles to his feet. 

“Leorio, don’t-”

A fist collides with pudgy pink flesh. Leorio’s probably expecting a surrender, maybe even some whimpering. The guy is pretty buff, and though it’s been a while since he’s put it on display, there isn’t much that Leorio lacks, physically speaking. But Killua knows he’s in for a shock, and that this single unguarded moment could cost him a whole lot. 

Because while a normal human being might gasp as their forehead bursts like a tap, spilling blood on the rocks, Milluki grins. 

His beady eyes gleam as blood drips down the side of his face, utterly unfazed. He even chuckles lightly. 

In a way, Killua pities him, because under all that natural armour, it must be a true delight to actually feel something once in a while. He knows for a fact that while Milluki is as lethargic as an eighteen year old can possibly be without ending up in the hospital, he also seeks thrills, thrills, and more thrills, if only to jump start his butter-crusted heart every now and then. 

As expected, Leorio is in shock. His expression is striking, the skin of his mouth pulled back and his teeth clamped as he realises what he has just done.

Hesitation.

That right there, that quiver of doubt sending waves of confusion across Leorio’s face, is alien to Killua. To his memory, never in his life has he hesitated. It doesn’t mean he hasn’t backed down, no, not at all. In fact, Killua has turned down more than he has accepted in his life, be it competition or comrade. But regardless of outcome, there is never any moment of excess. Never has been. Probably never will be. 

Killua breathes when he practices, speaks when he needs to, tries only when he is certain of success. Every moment spent pondering is a moment wasted. It’s the way he was raised, sure, but Killua knows a part of it is inherent. Inherent in all the Zoldycks, binding the five children in both blood and circumstance. 

Killua always thought he was the only trying to unbecome that part of himself, to indulge a little, spend a little, try hard despite unfavourable odds. With Gon and Leorio by his side over the past week, he has found himself doing all these things and more, feeling excitement and pleasure and worry and regret slosh around in his body like acid, awakening parts of him he didn’t know existed as he took steps into territory he never believed in. 

But looking at Milluki’s face now, the desperation in his eyes, he recognises it instantly. It’s the same thing. Milluki has never been one for close conflict, or conflict at all. Generally, he shies away from theatrics, opting to sell information for money and move on with his own conquests. Yet here he is, spitting blood and wanting more, and in some twisted way, Killua almost feels proud. Even though he shouldn’t, and Leorio is his friend who doesn’t deserve to be dragged into anything his brother stirs up. But still, Milluki is trying. Trying as hard as Killua is. Just in a really fucked up way. 

A pink fist collides with a long chin, sending Leorio stumbling backwards. He grabs his jaw. 

_Hesitation costs you,_ Illumi’s voice rings in Killua’s head, memories of his early sight-reading days shuffling around in his brain. 

Illumi isn’t wrong. But is it a bad thing when you stop to think about what you’ve done? Is that hesitation? The definition is muddled in Killua’s brain, fragmented meanings trying to piece themselves together. 

A jolt. Gon rushes past the white-haired boy, face heated and ready for war and the complete antithesis of hesitation. The utter opposite of everything Killua knows. 

He blinks, Gon’s hard shoulder breaking him out of his thoughts. When his eyes land on the unfolding scene, locked elbows, yelling, screeching, sweat flying everywhere along with Leorio’s tie, Killua can feel everything going to utter caveman shit. So much for pondering.

One of the other third years is walking calmly towards a patrolling lecturer, inviting them to watch the senior beating up younger students. Killua can see the god-awful smile on Milluki’s face as Leorio continues to scream at him, and its small, petty upturn is enough to sour any new-founded sympathy and connection Killua might’ve felt. 

His brothers really are dicks. 

\------

Illumi pauses. The room is dark, blinds drawn. A cello rests between his legs, the bow in one hand. His feet rest bare against the carpeted floor. 

“I am practising”, he says curtly, waiting for the figure at the entrance to leave. 

Hisoka does no such thing. Instead, the redhead slips into the room, closing the door behind him, and walks over to the piano. 

“Are you sure you’re properly tuned?”, his voice teases. 

Illumi scoffs. “Yes, obviously.” Then, when Hisoka plays a chord, “The piano is flat.”

The redhead chuckles, playing another. “Really? I think it sounds alright.” He starts a little ditty and everything sounds warped to Illumi because yes it is very out of tune and his pitch-perfect brain finds it difficult to handle. 

“Stop that”, he demands coldly. The playing gets louder, more brazen, making it much more of a headache. Still, he can’t show his discomfort, not to this lecherous fool. He flips through his sheet music, trying to ignore the flat keys and the wobbling, uneven sound in the room. 

“Did you miss me?”, the redhead asks, tinkering on the high end of the piano before landing on an unbelievably dissonant chord, all seconds and ninths and chromatics sticking out jaggedly around a perfectly good E minor. Illumi’s eye twitches. Fucking jazz majors. 

“Not particularly, no”, he says, and he means it. 

“Mm, that’s too bad” A crappy rendition of Greensleeves begins, and it’s too awful to bear. 

“Hisoka, stop.”

He does. 

A miracle, Illumi thinks, but he thinks it too soon because a second later Hisoka turns around on the piano stool, dropping elbows onto the keys for one last resounding crash, legs crossed as he smiles at his companion. 

Illumi really cannot understand this man. He ignores the screeching of his brain to correct all those stray notes still bouncing around in his ears and turns back to his cello, marking his movements with his left hand. 

Three minutes go by. Illumi hums his part in his head, moving practised fingers over the strings without making a sound. Hisoka is on his phone, probably texting someone about a prank or a deal or a one-night stand. One and the same to him, really. 

The dark-haired boy lifts his bow to begin, when Hisoka kicks his chair. 

It takes all the mercy in the world for Illumi to resist skewering the redhead on his bow. 

“You skipped class again”, he says, gripping the neck of his cello tightly, wishing it were Hisoka’s neck and that he could just splinter the wood into tiny little pieces. 

Hisoka hums. “So you did miss me.”

“No”, he breaks out of his daydream, “but you missed introductions. We have a new teacher.”

Hisoka raises his eyebrows. “Krueger showed up? What’s she like?”

Illumi sighs. “A bit of a nuisance, actually”, he concedes, resting an arm on the top of his instrument. He sets his bow aside. Something tells him he won’t be getting a lot of practice this afternoon. 

“How so?”

He tilts his head thoughtfully. “For one thing, she’s failing all of us.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! 
> 
> Things I thought while writing this: 
> 
> 1) Milluki has a soul but it's not a fun one
> 
> 2) Illumi 100% plays cello. It's just the perfect instrument for him. But I imagine he also plays violin and piano. Violin because they probably tested him out as the "prodigy" of his generation but when he showed an aptitude for the cello he kinda dropped it. 
> 
> 3) Hisoka will say "ya like jazz?" at least once before I end this work
> 
> 4) Was Hisoka texting Milluki?? who knows?? I think he was
> 
> 5) This chapter is kinda short. Sorry about that. I have yet to finalise the next parts so I thought I would lay some groundwork now instead of making the update gap even longer than it already is. 
> 
> If there are any spelling errors or instances of bad grammar please feel free to let me know! All constructive criticism is much appreciated! :D


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